


The Choices We Make

by Jaybird (theKyra)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theKyra/pseuds/Jaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Deep Roads expedition, Hawke falls to the taint in her sister's place. Though the Joining saves her life, she promptly decides that the life of a Grey Warden is not for her. Predictably, this doesn't go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

_9:31 Dragon, somewhere above ground_

She left in the middle of the night, putting her year of smuggling and sneaking to good use as she raided their food stores and snuck out of the camp. For a moment, she also considered stealing one of the horses, but then decided that it wasn't worth the risk; it would be easier to hide in the village they'd passed earlier that day if she was alone, and it would be difficult enough to feed herself. Traveling on foot wasn't fast, but she didn't need to be fast. She just needed to reach that village.

Hawke was careful for the first mile or so, periodically doubling back and occasionally destroying her tracks to slow the Warden down if he intended to follow, but soon enough she reached the river. Unlike Ferelden, winter in the Free Marches wasn't enough to fully freeze the river. There was enough ice in the water to be treacherous, but more importantly, there was _water_. Stroud was Orlesian, but one of his mercenary companions had a dog—not a mabari, but clever enough to track a scent trail on command. Tromping through the water instead of taking the bridge would, hopefully, break that trail. _Her_ dog was smart enough to follow footprints as well as scents, but a common dog? That seemed unlikely.

Some two and a half miles later, she wondered if Stroud or his companions had noticed her... departure.

When they still hadn't shown up half a mile later—and she was certain that they eventually would—she decided that she would likely be safe until daybreak. Even better: if they waited until daybreak to follow her trail, she would hopefully be well out of their reach by then. That, of course, depended on whether or not she could find somewhere secluded to sleep in for a few hours. If she tried to forgo sleep, she would only be inviting trouble. Better to rest, buy some more food with the few coins still in her pockets, and then figure out which direction Kirkwall was in.

And, perhaps, it would be wise to get a change of clothes and cut her hair, to prevent anyone who saw her from telling Stroud which way she'd gone. _Coloring_ her hair would be even better, but that would require lightening it first, would required time and resources she didn't have. Setting this thought aside for later, Hawke increased her pace.

Soon enough, the village began to rise out of the darkness, illuminated by the pale moonlight. As she approached, she avoided the heart of the village and instead moved along its edge, looking for any sign of farms. Every village she'd ever seen had been accompanied by farms, but for every village she'd seen where the farmland started right at the edge, there were two more with a three hour walk between the village and the nearest farmstead. When they'd passed through earlier, she had been too busy observing Stroud to worry about the village, but now she desperately wished she'd at least glanced around when she'd had the advantage of daylight. Though the moonlight helped, it was far more difficult to make out the shapes of distant buildings at night.

Making her way around the edge of the village, she finally spotted a speck of light in the distance. Allowing herself a small hope, Hawke started towards the tiny speck, and was rewarded when the faint outline of what appeared to be a farmhouse appeared, perhaps a mile or two away. Despite the lingering feeling of _wrong_ that had stubbornly remained burrowed into her chest since she'd first fallen ill in the Deep Roads, she broke into a flat sprint, suddenly glad for the fact that she had continued to pick up mercenary work even after leaving Athenril's crew. If nothing else, it put coin in her pocket and kept her in decent shape.

The closer she got, the clearer the building became; in barely minutes it was clear that she had indeed found a farmhouse—and, behind it, a barn. Despite the obviously lit candle in one of the house's windows, she headed straight for the barn, deciding to find a quiet corner to sleep in and hoping the owners weren't early risers. Even without light to see by, she managed to find a ladder and a loft, and she was asleep in the back even before she knew it.

* * *

The disgustingly familiar feeling of a cold, damp nose digging into the back of her neck woke her with a start. She scrambled to a seating position, prepared to defend herself, only to realize that a dog was to blame. A herding dog, big and fluffy-haired, sat back on its haunches and whuffed at her. It seemed oddly friendly for a dog that was investigating an intruder, but she certainly wasn't going to complain.

Suddenly, a woman's voice shouted from below, “Turtle! Where'd you go?”

The dog glanced back towards the ladder at the sound, but didn't move an inch. After a moment, it looked at her again, paused, and then barked once. A warning bark, or an answer?

“I don't speak dog, you know,” the woman called, her tone airy and amused. “Come on, pup, we have things to do.”

Reluctantly, the dog hauled itself to its feet, trotted over to lick her face, then—in a remarkable display of agility—slid down the ladder. Staying low to the floor of the loft, Hawke crawled towards the edge, and realized that before, tired and in the dark, she hadn't noticed that the ladder was set at a gradual angle, no doubt to function as steps for the dog to climb.

The woman—older than she'd expected, with fine hair that was more gray than brown and a moderately lined face—was standing at just the right place to see her lurking on the loft above. Hoping against hope that the woman wasn't the sort to be obsessively protective of their property, Hawke offered her a sheepish smile and a small wave. For a moment, the woman stared at her, then chuckled softly and said with a shake of her head, “When did you get there? You should've come to the house. Surely my spare bed would've been more comfortable than that loft.”

Sitting up straight and swinging her legs over the edge, Hawke admitted, “I grew up on a farm. I'd be lying if I said I'd never slept in the barn.”

“Sibling?”

“Twins.” And _oh_ , that hurt, even now. Darkspawn had killed her brother, and so far as her remaining family and friends knew, she'd seen the same fate.

“I can imagine,” the woman said with a laugh. "I had two older brothers. They used to be so loud at night I had to go out to the barn just to have any hope of sleep. That accent—Fereldan?”

“Something like that.”

“Come on down,” she replied. “Give me a hand with the morning chores and I'd be happy to share my breakfast with you. Got a name?”

Hawke paused, just long enough to think. Then, surprising herself with her sudden inclination towards honesty, she answered, “Emmeline. I'd be happy to help.”

“Great! I'm Lily, and the dog's Turtle, but you probably figured that out. You any good with cows?”

* * *

She lacked her father's magic touch with animals—literal magic in some senses, less so in others—but growing up on one farmstead or another, she'd done well enough. By the age of ten Hawke had been a master at collecting eggs from chickens, by twelve she'd been a proficient handler of cows and horses, and by fourteen she'd been working the fields by day and sparring with Carver by night. At nineteen, she'd stumbled across an abandoned mabari puppy and brought him home; no doubt Barks-a-lot was currently asleep on her bed in Gamlen's home or pestering Bethany for table scraps as he usually did. It was nice to think that Barks was sitting by the door, waiting patiently for her to return, but that seemed... unlikely. Hopefully he was doing as she'd asked and protecting her sister from the attention of the templars, but how much could even the cleverest mabari do if the worst happened?

Once Lily's cow had been milked, her chickens fed, and her teakettle filled with water drawn from the well, the old woman indeed invited her into the house for breakfast. The farmhouse was bigger than she was accustomed to... and very quiet. _How does one woman manage all this on her own?_ she wondered, even as she scarfed down the food Lily set in front of her. It was plain fare, little different from the food she'd grown up eating, and incredibly delicious compared to the stale bread in her pack. All the while, the old woman chattered pleasantly about everything from the farm to Ferelden to her mouser's recently-weaned kittens. Then, a few minutes after Hawke finished her food, she said, “I take it you're traveling. Going anywhere in particular?”

“Wycome, in the Free Marches,” she lied, just in case someone was smart enough to look for her near the village. Wycome was in the same part of Thedas, but much further than she really intended on going. “Unfortunately, I got all turned around last night and now I haven't the slightest idea where I'm going.”

Lily smiled faintly. “Taking the scenic route? You'll get there if you just head east, but it'd be easier to go south until you reach Starkhaven, then follow the river from there.”

_So this is north of Starkhaven? Good to know._

Hawke nodded and, with genuine gratitude, said aloud, “Thank you. That's very helpful.” _I just need to travel south and across the Vimmarks, then. Not fast, but simple enough._ Unfortunately, crossing the mountains wasn't going to be easy on her own, especially in winter—even one as mild as this. A hunting bow would be her best bet at survival, and she certainly didn't have one.

“You know what? I'll make you a deal. Take some food and one of the kittens off my hands, and if anyone happens to show up looking for someone like you, I'll send them towards Nevarra. Sound good?”

 _Does she think I'm an apostate? “_ That's... very kind of you, Lily.” _Well, she isn't that far off._ _“_ I swear I'll repay you once I return home.”

The woman waved a dismissive hand and replied, “You seem like a good sort, and I need to do something with those kittens before I end up with a small army of cats. I also have some old clothes that might fit you, if you want them.”

“Are you usually this generous towards random travelers who sleep in your barn?”

This got a chuckle. “Turtle has good instincts, and he likes you. That's good enough for me. Go on, there's a room at the end of the hall with a spare bed and a trunk full of clothing. Take what you need.”

Compared to most of Kirkwall, which had been perfectly content to banish Fereldan refugees to the Undercity and only occasionally employ them in terrible jobs for very little money, this woman's generosity was astounding. And, despite how honest she seemed, it also seemed a tad suspicious.

_But if she wanted to cause problems, wouldn't she have already done so?_

Even as she considered this, Hawke made her way to the room Lily had mentioned, deliberately closing the door behind her. The door had no lock, but she hadn't expected anything different. The room was sparely furnished with just a bed and a trunk; when she opened the lid, it indeed appeared to contain a variety of old clothes. She quickly discovered that the trunk contained well-made clothes that ranged from dresses to tunics and breeches. Some were too old and thin to be worth taking, and others simply wouldn't fit her. As she dug deeper, she heard a door open somewhere else in the house, accompanied by voices—Lily's, and a man's voice she didn't recognize.

_It's probably nothing. You're paranoid, Hawke._

At the very bottom of the trunk, buried beneath a veritable mountain of ordinary clothes, Hawke found what was unmistakably leather armor, and of fine quality. Pulling several pieces out, she could tell it had been made for a shorter woman—Lily, perhaps—but it wasn't _too_ far off. She'd worn worse armor. The quartermaster at Ostagar had... not been prepared to outfit tall women who couldn't quite fit into a man's breastplate, much to Carver's amusement. To spite her brother, she'd stolen his breastplate overnight and decorated it with as many scraps of colorful fabric as she could weasel away from the Circle mages. At the time, she'd been disappointed that he'd merely chuckled and taken it in stride, but looking back, she was glad he'd found it amusing. A fond memory, now; perhaps fonder than another memory of a good-humored fight with her brother might've been.

Ultimately, she pulled out a plain set of clothes that seemed close enough to her size to be decently comfortable, only to be interrupted by Lily's voice saying her name from behind her, so suddenly that it made her jump. _I've spent too much time in Kirkwall_ , she thought, turning her head to glance back at the oddly generous woman.

“There are men in armor looking around town for a tall, dark-haired woman,” Lily said matter-of-factly, even as her sheepdog poked its head between her leg and the door. “Take my old leathers from there. You'll get more use from them than I will.”

Hawke frowned, just slightly. “I can't take these.”

“From what I understand, Wardens don't take too kindly to people who try to walk out,” she countered. “Please. Take my old gear, put it to good use, and I'll do my best to make sure they don't follow you.” Lily smiled wryly and added, “Half this village is convinced I'm a witch. Templars have knocked on my door more times than I can count. Trust me: I know how to get rid of unwanted guests.”

“As do I,” she admitted.

“Magic in the family?” Lily guessed. When Hawke nodded, she chuckled softly and said, “And here I was half expecting _you_ were a mage. I'll be outside. Take what you need, _including_ one of those damn cats, please and thank you very much, but take your time. I'll drive off those Wardens if they come near. I'd loan you a horse, but I'm afraid I don't have one these days.”

“I'll manage on foot,” she answered. “Thank you, again. And—I think I know the perfect place for a kitten.” Gamlen already complained enough about Barks-a-lot, but she could think of a Fereldan healer who would no doubt be _quite_ happy about getting a cat.... provided she made it back to Kirkwall.

The sheepdog stayed in the room when Lily left. Hawke ignored the dog, trading her taint-marred clothes for the old, clean ones from the trunk. Unlike the armor, which would be slightly too small, the clothes were slightly too big; ideally, the two would balance each other out. She strapped on the leather armor with brisk efficiency, then glanced at the dog and remarked, “What do you think, Turtle? Do I look like a proper mercenary again?”

Turtle barked once, and she half wondered if the sheepdog wasn't part mabari.

* * *

She waited several hours before she finally left. The mouser had five kittens, and Hawke chose the first one to approach her, tucking the kitten into her pack along with her carefully wrapped food and her waterskin. She left the pack open instead of drawing it tight, to allow the cat fresh air, and then with a final thank you to Lily, she started walking south.

Hawke started at a brisk pace, one that was too quick to keep up indefinitely but enough to put distance between her and Stroud's men. With her daggers and Lily's leathers, she was decently equipped to handle an even fight, but Stroud had four mercenaries and a second Warden on his side, and she wasn't terribly keen on facing _those_ odds. She covered the first few miles in good time, and kept up her pace for another hour past that before she finally slowed to a more comfortable stride. Traveling at night was risky, but empty land wasn't half as dangerous as Kirkwall's streets. At worst, there might be darkspawn or wild animals, but she knew how to avoid conflict with predators—and given her fuzzy memory of Anders leading them straight into a pack of darkspawn while looking for Stroud, she'd be able to tell if there were darkspawn in the area.

Even if there were, she wasn't worried. _I survived Ostagar. I can handle a few stray hurlocks. Better hurlocks than Stroud's mercenaries._

Hawke stopped close to what she guessed was midnight. Still out in the open, without any signs of occupied land in sight, her choices for a place to camp were slim. Or, so it seemed, until she nearly fell down a steep, short slope; a ravine of some sort, she realized. Dry, empty, and not immediately visible, it was a decent enough place to get a few hours' sleep. She took a few minutes to let the kitten out of her pack and feed it, ate a small portion of her own food, and then curled up on the ground with the pack nestled between her knees and chest. Sleeping in armor wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but for the moment, she wasn't inclined to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went from "what if Hawke was a warden" to I MUST WRITE THIS very, very quickly. My friends are also to blame for encouraging me. :P I'll probably wind up writing more in this AU eventually, but for right now it's just this fic centering on the aftermath of the expedition. I'll post the second chapter in a week or so, and the third chapter will (hopefully) follow another week after that.


	2. Trouble Brews

_9:31 Dragon, somewhere north of the Vimmark Mountains_

She slept poorly that night, and woke far sooner than she'd expected. The sky was only just beginning to lighten into a pre-dawn state, and unrelenting flashes of memory—Ostagar, Lothering, the Deep Roads—quickly eliminated her chances of getting any more sleep. She'd had always been a restless sleeper, but the devastation at Ostagar had disturbed her sleep for months.  _ Something tells me this won't be any different, _ she mused, pulling more food from her pack.

Resisting the urge to eat more than one of her carefully sized portions, Hawke swallowed what little food she'd allowed herself and paused just long enough to take a long drink from her waterskin. Wasting no time, she herded the kitten back into her pack, tossed the bag over her shoulder, and started walking again.

If she was lucky, she would stumble across another village, but the Free Marches weren't like Ferelden, small and densely packed with the Imperial Highway connecting every major settlement to one another. So far as she knew, the Free Marches was just a handful of cities, a river lined with farms, and a lot of empty space in-between.

Of course, the Free Marches were also exactly the sort of place one might expect to find a Dalish clan or two. Given that Merrill's clan had warned her away instead of shooting first, it was clear not _every_ Dalish clan were as aggressive as the stories claimed, but that didn't mean that crossing paths with one would be good for her health.

Then again, she'd gone to the Deep Roads despite knowing the risks, and she had miraculously survived this long, so maybe her luck was better than she thought.

Glancing back, she amended, _Or maybe not._

Off in the distance, back the way she'd come, were two dark shadows approximately the size and shape of men on horseback.

_That's going to be a problem._

_I can handle two fighters in close combat, but if either of them has a bow..._

_Hide. But where?_

Rushed but not yet frantic, Hawke searched her surroundings for options. In a few seconds she found: a tree, no shortage of tall grass, and not much else. _I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss Kirkwall. Easier to disappear, at least._

A moment later, she opted for the tree and moved towards it as quickly as she dared, hoping that the two riders either couldn't see her or weren't watching closely. With the ease of a childhood spent exploring every inch of her surroundings, she clambered up into the tree and perched on as high a branch as she dared, settling in to wait. If the sun had already risen, the absence of leaves would have been a problem, but in the pre-dawn shadows she was confident that the frost-dusted branches would suffice.

Best case scenario, they weren't looking for her and would ride right past. If they _were_ looking for her, which seemed more likely... _at least there are only two. Might not even be Stroud's men. Maybe he offered a bounty. Do Wardens do that?_

It seemed like it took an age and a half, but the sun gradually began to rise and the steady sound of hooves against dirt finally approached her hiding place. Unmoving, Hawke peered through the thin branches and inspected the riders.

There were, indeed, only two of them. Both wore armor—leather, poorly made, and exactly what she would expect from people who lived well away from any trade routes or were so poor that they could afford nothing else—and were both armed, one with a bow and the other with a sword and wooden shield. The archer was the bigger threat—but also the better opportunity. If she had a bow, acquiring food would be far easier than 'walk in the general direction of Kirkwall and hope there are a few towns between here and there,' but getting it would require a fight. Their horses were moving at a trot, quick enough to cover ground while slow enough to watch for the tracks she hadn't bothered hiding, but neither rider slowed as they approached her tree.

 _They don't know where I am,_ she realized suddenly.

Barely half a moment later, she had an idea. And, perhaps, she had a bit of an impulsive streak, but when she hadn't thought of anything better, Hawke hung her pack on a branch and inched along a sturdy branch until she was almost directly overhead the horses' path.

She waited until they were close, set her sights on the archer, and then dropped from the branch as they rode beneath, hanging on by her hands and swinging her legs directly at the archer. As she'd hoped, she successfully knocked him from his horse, but his companion reacted faster than she'd expected, wheeling his horse around even as the archer's horse fled.

Before the swordsman could dismount, she released the tree branch, landing barely a step away from the man on the ground. Hawke straightened and stepped forward as she unsheathed her twin blades, placing her boot on the archer's neck and applying only enough pressure to discourage him from attempting to move. Then, turning her head to glance at the swordsman, she pointed a blade at him and demanded, “Were you sent to find me?”

Surprisingly, the swordsman seemed undeterred. Given how cheap his armor was, she'd expected a farmer with some idea of how to use a sword but no nerve for battle. Perhaps she had been wrong on that count. “Are you the one they're looking for?” he said coolly. “The runaway?”

She resisted the temptation to laugh. _As if anyone would answer that question honestly._ “That depends on who _they_ are.”

The swordsman merely grinned. “He said you had a smart mouth.”

“And I'm sure he forgot to mention that I'm also a veteran of the Blight,” she replied, deliberately putting more pressure on the archer's neck. Compared to the people who'd actually _remained_ in Ferelden during the Blight, she wasn't much of a veteran, but for intimidation purposes she had few qualms about such claims. “I'll give you until the count of five to leave, or I'll snap your friend's neck.”

And if she couldn't manage that with her weight alone, she could certainly suffocate him.

“One.”

“Be my guest.”

 _Serious or bluffing?_ “Two.”

Rather than leave, the swordsman dismounted.

“Three.”

Where was Barks-a-lot when she needed a warhound?

“Four.”

He drew his sword and took a step towards her.

She shifted all of her weight to the foot on the other man's neck and said calmly, “Five.” The archer thrashed as she crushed his windpipe, but she planted her feet and stayed where she was, warily watching the swordsman as she waited for the archer to stop struggling for air.

He closed the distance between them with another step, and she settled into a fighting stance without even thinking about it. Whether the archer was dead or merely unconscious, she didn't know, but he could wait until she'd dealt with the swordsman.

Hawke waited to see if he would strike the first blow, and after a moment he did so. He lifted his shield, then jabbed his blade at her in an entirely amateur manner. Even the greenest of soldiers at Ostagar had been better. _This won't be difficult._

She landed the first strike: she dodged his second thrust and jabbed a dagger into his sword arm, digging straight through the leather and into skin before she yanked it back out and danced back out of his immediate reach. He parried her follow-up attack, and she met his blade with her own, and they continued this pattern for a time. If she hadn't been busy trying to defeat his consistently effective defense, she might've thought it impressive that he could hold his own against her.

Without any warning, he broke the pattern and lashed out with his shield. While she'd seen Aveline do the same a thousand times, the move still caught her off guard. Hawke stumbled backwards, barely evading the shield but knocked off balance, and the swordsman took this opportunity to lash out at her again.

His sword met the fine, borrowed leather she wore and sliced into her side and she wrenched herself away, saving herself a deeper wound at the cost of doing more damage to the armor. Stubbornly ignoring the searing pain, she took another step back as he drew his sword back, waited a moment, and then charged as soon as he lifted the sword again. She slipped around the shield, moving as quickly as she could, and aimed for his unprotected neck.

The swordsman fell to the ground, choking on his own blood, and Hawke stepped away, wiping her blades off on her breeches. Once she'd sheathed her daggers, she pressed a hand to her injured side and went to retrieve his companion's bow and quiver. She didn't waste time inspecting her side; it would be better to put space between herself and the two dead men on the ground first, just in case someone came looking for them. Hawke climbed up just high enough to fetch her pack from the tree, then slowly approached the swordsman's horse where it still lingered a short distance away, grazing on the tall grasses.

It'd been years since she'd last been on horseback, but that didn't matter. She had an opportunity, and she was going to take it. Hawke paused to introduce herself to the horse before she attempted to climb into the saddle. To her delight, the horse didn't immediately try to throw her, and once she had the reins in her hand, Hawke directed the horse towards the south and allowed it to carry her towards her distant home.

* * *

There were no more incidents that day, aside from the kitten digging fresh scratches into her leg while she examined the wound in her side with the last hours of daylight. It wasn't a severe wound, so far as she could tell, but she had no healer and no supplies that would be even remotely helpful. Resolving to keep an eye out for elfroot, Hawke continued traveling, stopping again only when she was too tired to continue. That night, she tied the horse's reins to a tree and slept a short distance away, and again her sleep was fitful. In the morning, she brought down a rabbit with her newly acquired shortbow, ultimately splitting the unlucky creature in half. One half went to the kitten, still raw, while the other half she cooked over a small fire for herself. Then, at last, she started again.

Another day and night passed before she found a town on the edge of a lake. She stopped briefly to refill her waterskin, steal a modest amount of food, and get her wounded side stitched up. The local healer was no mage, but he had herbs and a steady hand, and before long she was on her way again with her side stitched up.

By the time she made camp for the night, she could clearly see the shape of the Vimmarks in the distance. _Almost home. I hope the others made it back without any trouble._

As she approached the base of the mountains the following evening, however, her path was blocked by a pair of Dalish elves who stood with their bows drawn and aimed at her.

One was short, dark, and looked younger even than Bethany; the other was tall, fair, and seemed more wary than hostile. In heavily accented Common, the pale elf said, “You're in our territory, _shem_.”

“I'm just passing through,” she replied, carefully maintaining a mild tone. “I have no quarrel with the Dalish.”

 _“_ _Shemlen_ don't tend to travel this way,” the younger elf said. Her Common was accented, too, but she sounded almost Antivan compared to the tall elf's familiarly Elvish accent.

“And I'm sure they generally aren't trying to outrun someone,” Hawke countered. More mildly, she added, “Do you know how far it is from here to Sundermount, by any chance?”

Pale Elf gave her a suspicious look. “Three days. More, if the weather turns bad.”

“Why there?” Antiva asked, her tone oddly civil for someone aiming a bow at their conversation partner.

“I have friends there,” she answered, though this wasn't entirely honest. There were few in Merrill's clan who speak civilly with her on the rare occasion she passed through, and she doubted any of her friends would have reason to go to Sundermount without her. Still, the important part was that Sundermount was within a day's travel of Kirkwall.

The two elves paused, conferring quietly in Elvish. She recognized a few of the words they used, but not enough to for any genuine comprehension, and so Hawke waited until they deigned to speak to her again. Finally, Pale said, “We'll escort you to the southern edge of our territory, but if you come back we will shoot you before you've even seen us.”

“Fair enough,” she said, silently thanking the Maker for her sense of direction. So long as the weather remained fair and she didn't get completely turned around, those were terms she could easily keep.

Antiva took the horse's reins from her and led the way, guiding the horse over the uneven ground with a surprising sureness; unlike her companion, Pale didn't lower her bow, and glanced back at Hawke constantly as if she thought she would abruptly jump off the horse and go off to cause trouble for the clan. Once, she might've found the elf's paranoia irritating, but most of the city guards in Kirkwall had taken to treating her in much the same manner. Aveline's idea, no doubt.

 _Clearly it was a mistake to help her become Guard-Captain,_ Hawke thought with a wry smile.

She wasn't sure how long they had been traveling when a man's voice interrupted, calling to them in Elvish. Antiva responded in kind, and only then did a middle-aged man appear from out of the trees, accompanied by a much younger man leaning on what was unmistakably a mage's staff. The older elf was darker even than Antiva, his black hair already half gray, but the resemblance between them was striking. Interestingly, the old elf was the only one among the four who didn't have the intricate tattoos she'd come to associate with the Dalish. A former city elf, perhaps? It would explain Antiva's accented Common, at least. Aside from the staff, the younger man wasn't half as interesting; he was tan with scruffy blond hair and hardly seemed to have noticed her.

“I doubt you're really going to Sundermount,” the older elf suddenly said in nearly flawless Common. _Definitely a city elf_. “You're a Kirkwaller, aren't you?”

Reluctantly, Hawke nodded. “I guess you could say that.”

“Kirkwaller with a Fereldan accent,” he said, his tone amused. “Strange, the places life takes us. If you're quick, you can make it to Ardis before sunset. It's a mining town in the mountains—controlled by the Carta, but decent folk live there. They don't ask questions—or, at least, they didn't in the past.”

She frowned. “I've never heard of Ardis.”

“Most Kirkwallers never have.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “You can pay me back by leaving now, before I have to explain to the Keeper what a human is doing so close to our camp. Good luck, watch out for wyverns, and if you _do_ pass by Sundermount, give Keeper Marethari our regards.”

_Wyverns. Fantastic._

* * *

When she'd reached the mining town that evening without seeing a single wyvern, Hawke decided that the Dalish elves had been making things up to discourage her from lingering.

The shouts of 'WYVERN!' that suddenly started up at the far end of the town as she dismounted a few minutes later immediately proved her wrong. With a weary sense of exasperation, Hawke left her stolen mount where it was, adjusted the strap of her pack on her shoulders, and unsheathed her daggers as she began following the sounds of shouting and of what she could only assume was the wyvern.

Ahead of her, the scene was a busy one: a large, brightly colored creature paced around a large space between buildings, ringed by a handful of dwarves who looked, as promised, like members of the Carta. Most of the dwarves carried either swords or crossbows, and she spotted a couple of humans armed with shortbows. Given the numerous arrows and bolts sticking out of the wyvern, the group had the battle well in hand, and Hawke slowed to a stop a short distance from the ring of dwarves. For a change, she simply stood back and watched.

Barely a few seconds later, the wyvern charged a dwarf standing nearby with a greataxe, knocking the man to the ground. Even as the fallen dwarf thrashed under the wyvern's attack, his comrades assaulted the wyvern with their blades and crossbows, which only drove it out of their ring of fighters. In the moment between its release of the dwarf and its lunge towards her, Hawke distantly realized that the fallen dwarf couldn't have possibly survived. Then the wyvern was nearly on top of her, and she lifted her blades just in time to meet its attack.

The wyvern surged forward, seemingly oblivious to the two blades she'd sunk into its neck, and the force pushed her back one step, two, and abruptly she felt one of the stitches in her side pop. She released her grip on her daggers and backpedaled just as an arrow flew past her face to land directly in the wyvern's eye.

Victim of either an incredible shot or a lucky one, the wyvern collapsed mere inches from her feet, and Hawke glanced back in the direction the arrow had been shot from. A slim woman with delicately pointed ears and a beautifully carved longbow stood some fifteen yards away, and she shot Hawke an amused smile. Irritated that she'd been shown up, Hawke sullenly retrieved her blades from the wyvern's neck, cleaned the worst of the gore off on the wyvern's scaled hide, then returned them to their sheaths strapped to her back.

The ensuing clean-up was a well-orchestrated process; several of the dwarves and humans dragged away the dead wyvern, two more dwarves took their fallen friend into a nearby building, and the rest dissipated into the growing darkness that had begun to swallow the town. Pressing a hand to her injured side, Hawke didn't notice the elven archer had approached until a woman's voice said, “I take it you've never fought a wyvern before.”

She turned, scowled, and said defensively, “I've fought young dragons, but that's usually with a mage at my back. Wyverns aren't terribly common where I'm from.”

The woman shrugged and replied, “Still, you're alive, and that's more than a lot of people can say. Welcome to Ardis, dragon hunter. If you need a place to stay the night, the inn's over there. Tell them Katia sent you.”

“I'll do that.”

The corner of Katia's mouth quirked up for a moment, and then she walked away.

Wondering how an elven woman had become such a proficient shot, Hawke slowly meandered towards the nondescript building Katia had indicated. As soon as she opened the door, however, it was clear she was in the right place. Light and noise flooded out into the street as she stepped through the door into the crowded inn. It seemed like the whole town was inside: Carta dwarves, humans, and even a couple of elves. Despite the crowd, a tall, tanned elven woman weaved through the people and greeted her in mere moments. She wore a dress as colorful as the wyvern's scales and had tied her dark hair back with a white bandana in a fashion that reminded her of Isabela—but, more interestingly, white Dalish tattoos curled across her cheeks and forehead.

Evidently well accustomed to guests surprised by her tattoos, the woman ignored Hawke's silence and asked, “What can I get for you, miss? A drink, a bed, some food?”

“I was told to tell you that Katia sent me,” she said by way of answer.

The woman snorted. “My younger sister. Showing off again, I'm sure. You need a healer? Junan's no mage but he knows what he's doing at least.”

“I'd appreciate it,” she replied. “I'll take you up on that offer of food and a bed, too.”

She nodded thoughtfully and said, “I can manage that. Find a seat in the meantime. My girl Neria will bring you something to eat. We have bread, stew, eggs, probably some fruit of some sort. Want anything in particular?” Hawke made a dismissive gesture, and the woman added, “I'll send her over with something hearty. You look like you could use it.”

 _And how much is that going to cost me?_ she thought, even as the elven woman disappeared back into the throng. _Please don't ask for the rest of my coin in the morning._

She paused, just for a moment. _Maker, I hope no one tries to steal my coin overnight. No Varric here to get my coin purse back this time._

Hawke found a table near the back of the place, where the crowd wasn't quite as thick; a kid who looked about twelve brought her a bowl of some sort of stew and a surprisingly large chunk of bread some minutes later, and remembering the cat, she asked the kid (Neria, presumably) for a bowl of milk and a bottle of ale. By the time the girl returned a few minutes later, Hawke had gulped down most of her own food. She retrieved the disgruntled kitten from her pack, set it down on the table along with the milk, and then returned to her food only to be interrupted by a man's voice.

“You the one Vel mentioned?” She glanced up to see an elven man standing opposite her. Junan, presumably. “She wasn't kidding. You look terrible.”

She grimaced and admitted, “I'm not surprised. You wouldn't believe the month I'm having.”

Junan rested his hands on the table, leaning forward. “Pretty cat you have there. What can I do for you?”

“Elfroot potion, if you have it,” she replied. Utterly disgusting, but it had always been her go-to for dulling pain and getting over illness. Elfroot would probably do exactly nothing for the taint in her blood, but it would help her sleep, and that was the important bit. “I might've reopened a stab wound, too, but I can manage that one on my own.” It was difficult to spend time in Anders' clinic and _not_ pick up a few useful skills, though magical healing was significantly faster than letting time take its course.

He passed her a stoppered flask of decent size and said, “I'm told this is on Katia. Let Vel know if you decide you need anything else. She knows where to find me.”

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a genuine smile even as she tucked the flask away in her pack. That old elf hadn't been kidding. The people of Ardis were a curious bunch, but they certainly seemed like decent people—a refreshing change from the streets of Kirkwall, where most folk seemed to have no qualms about murdering each other over a couple gold sovereigns. It was no different in Hightown, she knew; the stakes were higher and the murders happened indoors instead of in the middle of the street, but the same principle was at work.

“Welcome,” Junan said. “Not often we see people like you passing through here. Usually just more Carta. Sometimes Wardens, though it's been a few years since I've seen any. Not much else.”

_And here's to hoping the Wardens don't think to look here._

“Have a good night,” he said, then left. The kitten meowed plaintively at her and nudged her hand with its head, and she absentmindedly petted it while she finished her meal. _I should leave before daybreak. Two or three more days and I'll be home. Can't wait._


	3. Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, but expect to see more in this universe at some point, because I can't resist. Enjoy! :)

_27 Haring, 9:31 Dragon, Kirkwall_

It was late at night when Hawke finally reached Kirkwall. She entered the city through a gate in Lowtown, but instead of going to Gamlen's house and risk getting an earful for showing up unannounced at a ridiculous hour, she walked to the Hanged Man instead. To her disappointment, the tavern was quiet. Even Isabela was nowhere to be seen, and Varric's suite at the top of the stairs was dark. With the knowledge that she would find no good company here, Hawke headed to Darktown instead. There was a good chance Anders wouldn't be awake either, but he had never minded her occasional late-night invasions of the clinic before.

Even after weeks away, Darktown looked much the same: beggars asleep in the muck, members of the Coterie milling about, a lantern hanging above a door. To her surprise, the lantern was lit despite the hour. Anders often kept strange hours, but she hadn't expected the clinic to actually be _open_. The doors were closed when she approached, but a quick test proved that Anders had yet to lock the doors for the night—as locked as they could be in the Undercity, at least. Ignoring the vaguely familiar and deeply uncomfortable feeling brewing at the back of her mind, Hawke pushed the door open.

Anders was—

He stood in the center of the empty clinic, staff in hand, much like the day they'd met, as if he'd expected an unwanted guest from the Carta, or templars, or—or a Warden. He'd found the other Wardens before, and evidently he'd felt her presence and assumed that they had come back for him.

Suddenly, she realized that the powerful unease gnawing at her bones was precisely how Wardens recognized one another—and darkspawn.

Hawke didn't take another step further, and they both remained silent and unmoving for several long moments. Finally, Anders lowered his staff and said in a quiet, faintly surprised tone, “You came back?”

Rather than cave to the mixture of fear and relief burning beneath her skin, Hawke shot him a grin. "And I'm not dead, I don't think."

“Always a good thing,” he replied, though his words lacked the amusement that was usually elicited by her quips. “And Stroud?”

“Trying to find me.” She sighed, her exhaustion finally catching up to her, and rubbed at the back of her neck as she added, “He must have been promising coin to anyone who could find me. A couple of idiots caught up to me about a week ago, but I... dealt with them, and there's been no sign of Stroud since. Still... I'm sure it's only a matter of time before they look here.”

“They will, eventually. The Wardens only take the best, and... Well, I doubt Stroud will let you go that easily.”

“Of course," she said, stalking towards him, suddenly angry, "I wouldn't have this problem if someone had _asked_ if I wanted to join the Wardens.”

Undeterred, he retorted, “You could barely stand on your own two feet, Hawke. What was I supposed to do? Just let you die?”

She scoffed. “You're a healer—you could've done _something_.”

“The taint is incurable, Hawke! And you didn't say anything until you were nearly _dead_ —if you'd said something earlier—“

“I didn't know it was the taint at first!” she snapped. “And even if I had said something, you said it yourself. It's incurable.”

Anders sighed, the sound weary. “It _is_ , but it can be temporarily slowed. At the very least, you wouldn't have been nearly dead on your feet.”

“You still could have asked,” she muttered, her anger fading back to a simmering resentment as quickly as it had flashed up.

“And knowing that the Wardens were your only chance at survival, would you have said no?”

Hawke made an irritated sound and crossed her arms, but didn't answer right away. Eventually, she conceded, “Probably not. Still...”

“You're right. I should have asked,” he said. “Especially since—well, joining the Wardens is only a temporary reprieve. The taint will catch up to us both someday.”

She lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, a rueful smile pulling at her lips. “Living in Kirkwall will probably kill us first.”

“That's true,” he said with a small laugh. “And even if it doesn't, we should have a decade or two before we need to worry about the Calling.”

“Good to know— _ow_ ,” she started, only to be interrupted by kitten claws digging into her back where her borrowed leathers didn't protect her skin. “Try to climb up my back, why don't you?” she muttered, reaching over her shoulder to pluck the kitten off her back. Glancing back towards Anders, she added, “By the way, I have a present for you, if you want this adventurous little monster.”

For a moment, Anders simply looked dumbstruck, as if he had never considered the possibility that she might give him a gift. Then, slowly, a wide smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Hawke. I mean it. Can I—?”

“Of course,” she said, passing the kitten to him. “By the way... would you mind if I spent the night here? I'm sure Bethany told my mother what happened, and walking through the door in the middle of the night sounds like a surefire way to give her a heart attack.”

“In other words, you don't want to drag me up to Lowtown at night, but you'll want me standing by in the morning?” he said, his tone light and completely unaffected by the kitten gnawing on his hand.

“I'm serious,” she replied. “Darkspawn killed my brother, and so far as Bethany knows, I haven't fared any better. Mother probably thinks I'm dead, and I don't think the shock will _literally_ kill her, but I know she won't take it well.”

“Fair enough,” he said. Then, gesturing in the general direction of the back of the clinic, he continued, “You're always welcome to stay here, Hawke. No matter the reason. The cot in the back room isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but it's better than the floor.”

“I'm sure it's cleaner, at least,” she remarked. “What about you?”

Anders only shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping well. Don't worry about it."

 _You and me both_. Aloud, she added, “Thank you—and, honestly, if you happened to be at the Hanged Man when I knock on Gamlen's door in the morning, that might not be a bad idea.”

Anders simply chuckled, and Hawke made her way back to his room, removing her borrowed armor for the first time in days and immediately collapsing on the cot. Again, her sleep was restless, but when she woke with a jolt some time later, one of the candles in the room had been relit and a blanket tucked around her. Anders was nowhere to be seen, but she could see light flickering through the gap under the door, and she drowsily concluded that it was good to be home, despite the costs.

* * *

_13 Wintermarch, 9:32 Dragon, Kirkwall_

She was in the Hanged Man when Stroud finally showed up several weeks later. It was Friday, and so nearly all of her friends had gathered for their weekly night of drinking and cards—or, more accurately, their weekly night of abusing Varric's tab and trying to cheat each other at Wicked Grace. Only Aveline was absent, busy with a mountain of paperwork (or so she'd claimed). Everyone else was in Varric's suite, and as usual Fenris was drunk, Isabela was winning, Merrill was losing, Anders was distracted, and Varric was telling Barks-a-lot some story or other that he had probably made up on the spot. Hawke herself was trying—and mostly succeeding—to avoid losing her entire coin pouch to Isabela, though she suspected that she was only prolonging the inevitable.

But then, “prolonging the inevitable” had seemed to become an accurate description of nearly everything she did. Joining the Wardens? Prolonging the inevitable. Hiding from the Wardens in Kirkwall? Prolonging the inevitable. Paying off key members of the Carta to shut up about her sister's magic? Prolonging the inevitable. Clinging to minimum bets? Prolonging the inevitable.

She was oddly glad to hear Aveline shouting her name from below in her usual “what in the Maker's name has Hawke done now” voice.

With some reluctance, Hawke dropped her cards on the table, face-down, and stood. For a moment, she and Anders exchanged glances, and then she walked out of the suite. Standing at the top of the stairs, she could see almost the entirety of the lower level, including the red-haired city guard standing by the foot of the stairs with one hand on her forehead and the Orlesian Warden standing beside her. Aveline seemed irritated, which had become increasingly common, whereas Stroud was shifting restlessly and clearly uncomfortable. Distantly she wondered if his problem was the tavern itself, or the accumulated filth, or the many drunk people, or perhaps the fact that the vast majority of those drunk people possessed some kind of weapon.

To a woman who'd fought at Ostagar and lived in Lowtown for over a year, a tavern full of drunk people with swords wasn't even remotely concerning. It was even less concerning given the presence of Aveline and of the rest of her friends, even if half of them were also moderately drunk. (Then again, she'd seen Fenris once kill a man despite being too drunk to walk straight.)

Stroud didn't seem to notice her, distracted by the common sight of one of the barmaids throwing someone out, until she was most of the way down the steps. Suddenly glad for the weight of her new reinforced leather armor, Hawke stopped where she was and said cheerily, “Evening, Aveline. Stroud.”

Lifting her gaze to meet Hawke's, Aveline didn't reply. Her expression said everything Hawke had expected: _I_ ' _m waiting for an explanation_. Apparently oblivious to Aveline's silent demand, Stroud said stiffly, “Thank you for your assistance, Guard-Captain.”

“And I'm sure she's positively thrilled you took her away from her paperwork,” Hawke drawled, easily feigning a confidence she did not feel. “How can I help you, Serah Warden?”

Standing above him on the steps, she had the tactical advantage, but unease still gnawed at her. A single Warden would be no match for her and even just a few of her friends, but all the same... Wardens had treaties that more or less allowed them to do whatever they wanted, and it wouldn't be entirely surprising if Stroud could invoke those same theories to demand that Aveline help him.

If it came down to her against Aveline, Aveline would probably win. Hawke had no doubt about that.

“Perhaps we should speak outside—“ Stroud began.

Immediately cutting him off, she said, “I'm fine with staying right here.”

With a faintly irritated tone, he insisted, “I will not conduct Grey Warden business in a crowded tavern.”

“Lucky for you, my friend Varric has a room upstairs,” she said, stubborn to the core. “Surely that would be more comfortable than standing out in the cold.”

Reluctantly, Stroud conceded, “That'll do.”

“Clearly, you have this under control,” Aveline interrupted. “I'll be up at the Keep if you need me.” With that, she turned and walked away—though instead of leaving, Hawke watched her head straight for the bar out of the corner of her eye. _Staying close or just getting a drink?_ she briefly wondered.

However, she gestured back up the stairs and said, “This way.” Then, without waiting for him to even start up the steps, she climbed up two at a time, reaching Varric's suite with just enough time to poke her head in and hiss at Anders, “Stroud's here.”

Only Anders, Varric, and Barks seemed to notice; Fenris was deep enough in his latest bottle that her voice wasn't enough to get his attention, and Merrill and Isabela didn't seem to be paying any attention to the world outside their new game of cards. She turned back as Stroud's heavy tread reached the top stair, and feigned nonchalance as she leaned against the wall beside the partially-opened door. “Any chance you're going to tell me why you're here?” she inquired.

“Not out here,” he said firmly, and with a sigh she tilted her head towards the door.

“After you.”

She followed him in, closing the door behind her, and was immediately surprised by how quickly the room had changed. Fenris was still only semi-conscious in his corner, but Isabela, Merrill, and Varric had disappeared, taking the cards with them. Anders was by the fire, pretending to sleep in the armchair and using Barks as a footrest; Barks, on the other hand, was actually snoring. Faintly amused by the scene, she sauntered in and picked a spot near the table to stand with her arms crossed. Stroud did much the same, standing behind a chair but not sitting.

They both stood for several minutes without speaking, but eventually Stroud said, “I imagine you believe me a fool.”

A startled laugh escaped her, and struggling for a calm tone, she replied, “How is that?”

“Surely you knew I would look for you—and yet, here you are, in plain view.”

“Why would I go anywhere else?” she said simply. “I _live_ here. And while I'm grateful you saved my life, I'm not abandoning my family. The Blight's over. You don't need me.”

“The Grey Wardens _always_ need people,” Stroud said flatly. “You, included.”

“And yet you're ignoring the fact that you and I are not the only Wardens in this room,” she replied. “You don't need me. I fought at Ostagar—I've done my part.”

Undeterred, he continued, “A Deep Roads entrance near Ostwick was accidentally opened by miners several weeks ago. Few among their city guard have ever fought darkspawn—and _you_ know what can happen to those unlucky enough to be corrupted by the creatures.”

“Your point being...?”

“I'm offering you a deal: help me drive off the darkspawn before Ostwick finds itself swarmed with ghouls, and the Wardens will allow you to continue living here as you are.”

She made a scoffing sound and lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I can't help but notice that you're completely ignoring Anders.”

Stroud shook his head and said, “Anders was granted leave by the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. Help me, and I will personally see to it that you receive the same freedom.”

“And how do I know you won't drag me off to Weisshaupt the moment I step outside Kirkwall?”

“I assure you, I have little interest in traveling to the Anderfels in the dead of winter.”

She snorted and replied, “This is nothing compared to a Fereldan winter.”

“Perhaps. All the same, I am not going to force you to go to Weisshaupt.”

“In which case I'm sure you won't mind if I bring a few friends,” she said, deliberately glancing at Anders and her dog.

Completely ruining his act, Anders objected, “Don't look at me, I have a clinic to run.”

With a laugh she conceded, “Fine. I'm sure Merrill would be happy to scorch a few darkspawn in your place.” Then, turning back to Stroud, she asked, “How soon were you planning to leave for Ostwick?”

“At dawn, ideally.”

She scoffed. “It's already midnight. I can promise you, I won't be sober by dawn. Meet us by the Lowtown gates at noon, and be ready to leave before my mother finds out.”

* * *

_8 Guardian, 9:32 Dragon, Lowtown_

Rather than take the quicker path to the alienage, Merrill walked with her back to her home, chattering all the while. Hawke only half listened, occasionally making sounds to suggest she was paying attention and giving vague answers when Merrill asked questions, and she was caught off guard when Merrill suddenly stopped midsentence and stood still. Pausing a few steps ahead, she turned and asked, “Merrill?”

“I just remembered—I promised to tell Varric when we got back,” she replied, her expression entirely too horrified for such a minor slip.

Offering her a smile, Hawke said, “Go on, then. I'll see you later, Merrill.”

Merrill nodded, her expression serious, and then she was gone, rushing back the way they'd come. With an amused smile, Hawke continued on alone, rounding the corner into her uncle's shabby neighborhood. She charged up the steps with Barks at her heels, knocked on the door, waited two seconds, and opened the door.

There was no fire in the hearth and no candlelight visible in the other rooms, and for a moment Hawke wondered if her whole family had inexplicably left for the evening. Even so, she shut the door behind her and sought out a candle by touch alone, lighting it with only minor difficulty. She stripped off her armor by candlelight, making a note to clean and mend it when she woke in the morning, and shortly after she was standing in just a thin tunic and breeches, one of the bedroom doors creaked open.

She glanced up, and was greeted by the faint outline of her mother standing in the doorway. She opened her mouth with the intent of spouting off a hello and an apology, only for her mother to snap, “How _dare_ you.”

Stunned into silence, Hawke only shut her mouth again and gave her mother a baffled look. Clearly, this was not what was expected of her, as her mother gestured angrily at the door and demanded, “Get out.”

“What in the Maker's name is your problem?” she retorted, spurred to speech by the unexpected demand. _Throw me out of my own house after I give you enough coin to buy back your family estate? Andraste's_ tits _, Mother._ “ _Please_ explain to me how leaving town for a few weeks is such a crime.”

This earned her a bitter, scoffing sound, which was not terribly reassuring. “Your father and I _trusted_ you to protect your sister—and what do you do? You go gallivanting off for a month without _any_ warning, leaving her to be taken by templars! It's _your_ fault she's gone—your fault I've lost two children, and I refuse to have you under my roof any longer.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Technically, it's Gamlen's roof.”

“Get out.”

 _You could always crash Varric's suite for the night, or stay with Merrill. Mother will cool off eventually. She has to._ Wasting no energy on masking her irritation, Hawke said aloud, “Oh, I'll leave. But don't expect me to give you any more of my hard-earned coin.”

Without giving her mother an opportunity to respond, she scooped up her gear and stalked back towards the door. She yanked it open, and though Barks hesitated a moment, glancing between the two women, he promptly trotted through the door.

She slammed the door shut as she left, more out of petty anger than anything else, and walked straight to the Hanged Man. _What kind of homecoming is that for someone who fought so hard to be able to stay in Kirkwall?_ she grumbled silently, only distantly aware of the bandits eyeing her from the alleyways, no doubt trying to judge if she was worth their trouble. _And I thought we'd dealt with the templars in Lowtown? How did they—_

Hardly even looking where she was going, Hawke didn't realize she'd walked straight into Merrill until well after her friend had stumbled backwards and said her name twice. With a sigh that was more jittery than she cared to admit, Hawke turned and muttered a quick apology, intending to continue on her way immediately.

Merrill, unfortunately, was not the type to let her go so easily. Before Hawke could turn back towards the Hanged Man and take another step, she frowned and asked, “Is something wrong, Hawke?”

Such an innocently-worded question, and yet—

“The templars took my sister.” A faintly hysterical laugh bubbled up from deep in her chest, and she added, “They took Bethany, and I've been thrown out of my own house. No, Merrill, everything's _great_.”

“That doesn't _sound_ great,” Merrill said, a bit hesitantly.

“It's really not. Could I—would you mind if I slept on your floor tonight? I'll go rent a room at the Hanged Man tomorrow or go to Darktown, but—”

“Of course you can, Hawke.”

“Maybe I'll talk to Aveline... she can talk sense into anyone, right?”

“Oh, certainly,” Merrill said, reassuringly. “Are you planning to stand still all night, or are you coming to the alienage with me?”

“Alienage. Right. Coming. Thank you, Merrill.”

“Anytime, Hawke.”


End file.
